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Most comprehensive guidebook in print to outdoor sculpture in Manhattan
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SALUTES: November

Many sculptures in Manhattan are linked to important dates in U.S. or world history. Here are a few for November. (They lean toward the martial, because the second volume of the Forgotten Delights series of guidebooks includes many soldiers.)

November 6, 1914: Father Duffy Joins the Army

Father Francis P. Duffy, by Charles Keck. Broadway and Seventh Ave. between 46th and 47th Sts.

 "The men were prompt in putting on their masks as soon as the presence of gas was recognized, but it was found impossible to keep them on indefinitely and at the same time keep up the defense of the sector," wrote Father Francis P. Duffy in 1917. "By about midnight some of the men were sick as a result of the gas, and as the night wore on, one after another they began to feel its effects on their eyes, to cry, and gradually to go blind, so that by dawn a considerable number ...were sitting by the Luneville road, completely blinded, and waiting their turn at an ambulance."

 Father Duffy could not have imagined such a scene when he signed up as chaplain of the New-York based Sixty-Ninth Regiment on November 6, 1914: deadly mustard gas was first used only in September 1917. But when he signed up with the 69th, a political assassination in Serbia in June 1914 had already triggered Europe's highly combustible mixture of political alliances and military brinksmanship. Europe had exploded into a war of such scope as the world had never seen before. Duffy and the 69th, on duty at the Mexican border, were recalled to New York when the United States entered World War I in April 1917. "Don't join the 69th unless you want to be among the first to go to France," said the 69th's recruiting posters.

 In Father Duffy's Story: A Tale of Humor and Heroism, of Life and Death with the Fighting Sixty-Ninth, 1919, Duffy recounted his experiences - sometimes charming, more often harrowing - in "the war to end all wars." He faced tanks, machine guns, planes shooting bullets and dropping bombs. He watched men sicken or die of influenza, mumps, measles, and scarlet fever, as deadly as the most innovative military hardware and harder to control. By the time the Armistice was signed in 1918, the Fighting 69th had lost 1,300 men in the Argonne offensive alone. Of the survivors, only about 600 were among the 3,500 who had arrived with the 69th barely a year before.

 Although he was not a soldier and refused to carry weapons, Father Duffy was always at the thick of the action, and sustained serious wounds. Returning home to a hero's welcome, the recipient of the Distinguished Service Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal, he was promptly given a position that required just as much courage and stamina as fighting on the Western Front. He was assigned to Holy Cross, the parish that included the notorious Hell's Kitchen, one of New York's most decrepit and most violent slums.

 Next time you pass Times Square (part of Duffy's old parish), salute the only statue of a priest in New York. Standing before a 17-foot-tall Celtic cross is a bronze Duffy nearly 8 feet tall, dressed in a World-War-I trench coat, gripping his Bible, with his helmet at his feet.

 On November 11 we celebrate Veterans Day, the eighty-first anniversary of the signing of the Armistice that ended World War I. Other Manhattan monuments to the soldiers of World War I - all to anonymous doughboys who fought in the trenches - include:

* Abingdon Square Memorial, Intersection of West 12th St., Eighth Ave.

* Chelsea Park Memorial, 28th St. and Ninth Ave. (Click here to see an image on this site and here for a September Salute on the Meuse-Argonne offensive.

* Flanders Field Memorial, Eleventh Ave. and 53rd St.

* 107th Infantry Monument, Fifth Ave. at 67th St.

* Washington Heights - Inwood War Memorial, Broadway and St. Nicholas Ave., between 167th and 168th Streets.

For more on this sculpture, see Outdoor Monuments of Manhattan.

November 12, 1883: Dr. J. Marion Sims' Legacy to Cancer Patients

Dr. J. Marion Sims, by Ferdinand von Miller II. Central Park at Fifth Avenue and 103rd Street, across from the Academy of Medicine. Faces east; best seen in the morning and when the leaves on the surrounding trees have fallen.

When he died 120 years ago (on November 12th), Dr. J. Marion Sims was recognized as the founder of modern gynecology, a surgeon who saved thousands of women's lives at a time when they routinely suffered and died from mysterious "women's complaints." "Not only was he one of America's most famous physicians," wrote historian of medicine Seale Harris, "he was an international legend, a controversial cosmopolite whose ability to blaze new trails and to effect remarkable cures kept him almost constantly in the limelight and brought him hordes of friends, not a few enemies, and a fabulous income wherever he went - which was practically everywhere." Yet one of Sims' most lasting legacies came not from his own work, but from a project that prospered because he threw the weight of his reputation behind it, just before he died.

 In 1906 an expert on cancer wrote, "Some of the older surgeons of even the present time say they have never seen a case of cure of cancer." The causes of cancer were completely unknown - hypotheses ranged from germs to heredity to stress to industrial civilization. Hospitals were reluctant to admit cancer patients, who were often considered morally deficient and likely to spread the disease. Known treatments were painful, disfiguring and largely ineffective. Those who had terminal cancer suffered and died in agony, without even alleviation of their pain.

 In October 1883, in a letter to a friend whose offer to fund a cancer pavilion at the Woman's Hospital had been rejected, Sims suggested the establishment of an independent hospital solely for cancer patients. Such a recommendation, coming from a man of Sims' fame and reputation, carried weight with the medical establishment. In early 1884, a few months after Sims died, the cornerstone was laid for the New York Cancer Hospital's Astor pavilion, dedicated to the treatment of cancer in women. It was the first such hospital in the United States, and one of only a handful in the world.

 In a bronze statue on Fifth Avenue at 103rd St., across from the New York Academy of Medicine, Dr. Sims stands with head bowed, perhaps pondering a difficult diagnosis. Funds for the statue were raised from colleagues and grateful patients.

For more on this sculpture, see Outdoor Monuments of Manhattan and Forgotten Delights: The Producers.

November 16, 1864: Sherman’s March Through Georgia Introduces the Concept of “Total War”

 

William Tecumseh Sherman, by Augustus Saint Gaudens, 1903. Fifth Avenue at 59th St., just east of the Plaza Hotel. Sherman is heading south; one of the dominant sides of the statue is always well lit.

“War is cruelty and you cannot refine it,” declared William Tecumseh Sherman. In Saint Gaudens’ magnificent statue at Central Park South and Fifth Avenue, the gilded foot of Sherman’s horse tramples a pine branch – a symbol of the March through Georgia, the campaign that made Sherman one of the most idolized and vilified military leaders in United States history. 

By the autumn of 1864, the five-month Atlanta campaign had resulted in over 30,000 casualties, and the death toll in the Civil War stood at hundreds of thousands. Sherman argued that to shorten the war and halt the slaughter, the Union army in Georgia should wage “total war.” He would not seek battles against the Confederate Army, but set out to destroy railroads, mills, factories, machinery, horses, mules, foodstuffs: any and all materials and means of transportation that might help the Confederates continue to wage war.

 While no one doubts that the March to the Sea weakened the South and thus hastened the end of the Civil War, the propriety of Sherman’s actions remains hotly debated. Why? Because having the best troops and most advanced technology doesn’t answer the question: Why are we fighting?

 Are we fighting to seize property from others, or defending our own property and lives against an enemy willing and able to attack us?

 Are we fighting as a race, tribe or nation against another such group, or fighting for the rights of the individual?

 Are we fighting to help the oppressed, or for our own survival and self-interest?

 Are we fighting while trying to ensure the enemy’s happiness after the war, or fighting to defeat him and remove him as a threat?

 At what cost in lives and money are we willing to continue the war - and if we lose, will we be able and willing to survive with what we have left?

 The answers to such moral and political questions determine how our soldiers are ordered and permitted to act. Today, when American troops are dying by the dozens in Iraq, knowing the answers is as vital as it was when men were dying by the tens of thousands 139 years ago in the Civil War.

The statue of Sherman is covered in Outdoor Monuments of Manhattan. For more on Sherman, see the September salute.

November 18, 1886: Death of Chester A. Arthur, 21st President of the United States

 Chester A. Arthur, by George Edwin Bissell, 1898. Northeast corner of Madison Square, near Madison Ave. and 26th St.

My idea of the limited function of a proper government is as inflexible as my definition of proper art (see "Christo’s Gates"), so I was intrigued by a statement on Chester A. Arthur (1829-1886) that “Legislatively … little of consequence was achieved during his term except for the creation of the modern Civil Service system.” In an era when even army quartermasters were routinely fired as soon as a different political party came into office, and when part of the salary of political appointees was routinely collected as campaign contributions, civil service reform was a dire need - but not one that the political parties were pushing.

Arthur was an unlikely man to institute such reforms. An early member of the Republican party and a close friend of Roscoe Conkling, one of the most influential cogs in New York’s party machine, Arthur was rewarded in 1871 with the post of collector of customs of the Port of New York. At the time, customs revenues were the federal government's main source of income, and about 75% of the nation’s customs duties were collected in New York. As collector of customs, Arthur was the nation's highest-paid employee.

Under President Hayes, Arthur was accused of corruption but not convicted. Nevertheless he was dismissed from his post in 1878. The influential New York party machine was soothed in 1880 when Arthur was selected to run as vice-president to James Garfield.

At first, Arthur worked with Conkling to promote the usual political appointments, causing some friction with Garfield. But in July 1881, after only four months in office, Garfield was assassinated by a disgruntled office-seeker. Pundits predicted rampant corruption under Arthur's administration.

It didn’t happen. In a 180-degree turn Arthur began to push for civil service reform. The Pendleton Act , passed in 1883, forbade the levying of political assessments against officeholders, made certain government positions obtainable only by competitive written examinations, and made it illegal to remove an employee for political reasons.

Not long after being sworn in, Arthur was diagnosed with Bright’s Disease, a kidney disorder which at the time was fatal. A private man, he kept the news to himself, merely telling colleagues near the end of his first term that he would under no circumstances run for a second. Arthur died in New York two years after leaving office as president.

Bissell also sculpted the Abraham de Peyster in Hanover Square, lower Manhattan. A statue of Arthur's friend Roscoe Conkling stands at the south side of Madison Square Park.

On the proper function of government, see Ayn Rand, “The Nature of Government," in Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal.

November 19, 1867: Death of Fitz-Greene Halleck

 

Fitz-Green Halleck, by James Wilson Alexander MacDonald, 1876. Central Park, north of the 65th St. Traverse, on the Literary Walk.

This is not one of the City’s better sculptures; but then Halleck (1790-1867) wasn’t one of the City’s better poets. What exactly is wrong with this piece? First of all, it's not distinctive as a portrait: the pen, paper and the upward gaze identify the man as a writer, but he could be any writer, American, European, or Latin American. In fact, you could switch the names on this and the neighboring Burns or Scott statues, and few would be the wiser. The proportions of Halleck's figure, his pose, and the shapes and texture of his face and clothing aren't particularly appealing, so the sculpture doesn't work as a purely esthetic experience, either.

The Dictionary of American Biography notes that even Halleck seemed not to have a high opinion of his own work: “His modest estimate of his poetry as a whole doubtless explains why he wrote little and stopped soon; like Gray, he seems to have known that he had not much to say. He was over-rated by his contemporaries because American poetry was poor and American criticism lax in the early nineteenth century; but his best work gives him a secure niche among minor American poets.”

So why do we have a sculpture of him? Probably because he was one of the first American poets to be widely recognized and acclaimed. He was certainly the first poet to have a sculpture erected in New York. At the unveiling of his portrait in 1877 a crowd of 10,000 gathered, including President Rutherford B. Hayes and his entire cabinet. The event caused such damage to Central Park (then still relatively new) that authorities forbade such activities in the future.

Halleck’s 1825 poem “Marco Bozzaris,” about a hero of the Greek war of independence killed at the moment of victory, was recited by countless schoolboys and translated to French and modern Greek. Personally I find more appealing his tribute to Joseph Rodman Drake, with whom he had collaborated on a series of satirical poems in 1819:

“On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake”

 Green be the turf above thee,
  Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
  Nor named thee but to praise.

 Tears fell when thou wert dying,
  From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
  Will tears the cold turf steep.

 When hearts, whose truth was proven,
  Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
  To tell the world their worth;

 And I who woke each morrow
  To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
  Whose weal and woe were thine:

 It should be mine to braid it
  Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,
  And feel I cannot now.

 While memory bids me weep thee,
  Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply
  That mourns a man like thee.

November 25: Evacuation Day, A Forgotten New York City Holiday

 

George Washington, by Henry Kirke Brown, dedicated 1856. South side of Union Square, facing 14th St. between University Place and Broadway. Faces south, but the main views are  from the east and west; one or the other is always well lit. Best seen on a day when the sun isn't dazzlingly bright, or the reflections off the bronze make seeing the details difficult.

Through the nineteenth century, the image was familiar: a sailor climbing up a flagpole to hoist the Stars and Stripes. The British, finally evacuating New York in 1783 - two years after the last battle in the Revolutionary War - had left a mocking memento. They nailed the British flag to the pole at the Battery, cut the halyards and greased the pole. To the cheers of a patriotic crowd, a sailor finally shimmied up the pole and raised the American flag in its place. Then, at last, General George Washington rode down Broadway to ceremonially reclaim the city for the Americans.

 The devastation he saw on his way downtown must have dismayed even as courageous a man as the Commander-in-Chief. During the seven-year British occupation two catastrophic fires had swept through the city. Fortifications disrupted street traffic. Public buildings, used as barracks or stables, were in shambles. The wharves and warehouses on which New York’s thriving pre-war trade had depended were falling to pieces; the merchant fleet that had sustained them was gone.

Walking near Ground Zero 220 years later, looking at the raw excavations and the rising steel skeletons of new construction, it’s heartening to recall that New York has been struck by disaster before, and New Yorkers  - stubborn, creative, and commercially minded - have always rebuilt their city better than ever, just as they did after the Revolutionary War.

 For over a hundred years November 25th, “Evacuation Day,” was celebrated in New York with a military parade and a school holiday. Today its only public memorial is the equestrian statue of George Washington in Union Square, which commemorates the moment and the spot where Washington met a deputation of citizens sent to officially welcome him to the city. Testimony to the importance of Evacuation Day is the fact that the Washington was the first large-scale bronze erected in the city after the Revolutionary War. The work of Henry Kirke Brown and the young John Quincy Adams Ward (who later became one of the most noted American sculptors), it was unveiled on July 4, 1856.

 For an 1883 image of the sailor climbing the flagpole, printed for the centennial of Evacuation Day, visit the New-York Historical Society’s website at http://independence.nyhistory.org/item.php?item_no=94&seq=8. For more on Evacuation Day, see Burrows & Wallace, Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898, pp. 259-62. For more on this sculpture, see Outdoor Monuments of Manhattan.

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